Walking on Razorblades
by Sadagres
Summary: Our favorite brunette is hurting...


A/N: This story is inspired by Crack by Sukiyumi14. Check it out if you have the time! I decided I didn't like the first chapter and re-wrote it. Sorry it took so long to update but I have a million different ideas and I'm trying to write them all at once. But now I'm going to focus on this one because it's so much fun. :P

I don't own Twilight.

Undeath

I've given a lot of thought as to how I will die. If I am going to die, I want it to be by my own hand. On my own terms. Yes, that's a good way to die…

Cut. Rip. Tear. I feel pain. Every cut helps me ignore the feeling of hopelessness, helps me forget that I am worthless. Damn. I make another several cuts to ignore it all. I feel calm. I am vaguely aware of the pain in my left forearm, but just barely. I sit on the floor of my room, this purple monstrosity. Honestly, does Charlie have no sense? As I slowly come back down from my endorphin-triggered high, I realize that I have to clean up still.

Sluggishly, I pack up the various razors and bandages. It hurts, but it's no less than I deserve. I crawl into my bed. I can feel the pulsing blood all hroughout my arm. I think I can still get another hour of sleep.

Roughly an hour later, I get up. I only drifted in and out for a few minutes but it's better than nothing. Oh well. I take a shower, carefully avoiding the semi-fresh cuts. As I step out of the shower, I look at my body in the mirror. Painfully pale skin reflects in the mirror. The girl in the mirror looked lost and sleep-deprived. Scars crissu-cross over various parts of her body. After running her hand over a particularly nasty one over her thigh, I ignore the girl in the mirror.

I pull on a pair of tight black jeans with skulls on the back pockets. I slip on a black fishnet longsleeve shirt. I pick out a black tank top that shows a little cleavage. I also pull on a pair of arm warmers. Or are they gauntlents? I always get them mixed up. Oh well. I apply a pale base foundation and some goth-style eyeliner. After some black lipstick and putting on a small bat necklace with a silver bat on it, I head out the door.

As I get in my truck. Ugh. Again. My dad has no taste. I remind myself to paint my room black while I look for some music to listen to on my I-pod. Hawthorne Heights. Nice.

I get out of my truck with as much dignity as I can. I sling my bag over my shoulder and strut towards the school. That was rule number one. Don't let them see you, let yourself seem untouchable. Several jeers and calls about my truck get called out as I walk by. One disinterested glance and most of them look away.

I can't help but smirk as I open the doors into Forks High School. My black combat boots click softly as I make my way to my first class. Suddenly, an arm is around my shoulders. I feel their body getting to close on my left. I grab my left fist as I hook a foot around his ankle. Before he knows what's going on, I plant my elbow in the boy's chin. He goes flying backwards before laying on the tile. I growl, "Don't touch me."

Spinning on my heel, I keep going to class. It's all pretty boring. I pick a window seat in the back and spend as much time as I can, watching the cover of clouds move lazily, not really changing much.

Gym is relatively boring. Hit the ball back and forth, yay. So excited. Lunch on the other hand, was torture. Some bint named Jessica sat down and started gossiping about all kinds of things. I tried to find a small, secluded table in the corner of the room, but nooo.

It didn't help that I now have own group of stalkers. Mike, Eric and Tyler are all fighting over me as though I were a prize to be one. They really just don't care about my feelings. My spiraling depression was put on hold by a pair of eyes on me from across the cafeteria. Edward Cullen. He's watching me intently. He's my Super-Stalker. Double Yay.

After Lunch I go to Biology. The teacher directs me towards a seat. I look at who's sitting next to me and almost groan out loud. My Super-Stalker.

I walk to my seat and throw my bag down as I sit in my seat. He's looking at me in disgust and covering his mouth. His eyes are black and full of anger. Bored, I twist my left arm. Under the bandages, most of the partially healed cuts opened. I bite back a moan as the pain shoots up my arm. Pulling out my black leather sketchbook, I work on a drawing in there. A young girl is holding a scythe. Behind her is a body, with it's entrails pouring out.

Next to me, my stalker is making soft choking noises. Out of the corner of my eyes I watch him raise his hand. I am totally unprepared for his voice. It's soft and silky. A small shiver runs up my spine as he speaks.

"I'm feeling ill, may I go to infirmary?" He sounds pained. He doesn't know pain. Not like I do. He's leaving because of me. Not even my stalker can stand my presence. It figures. Nobody cares.

Later I find out my stalker's name is Edward. Edward Cullen. I wait the next day to see if he's there, if he cares. He doesn't. Maybe he was ill like he said? I hope. I want him to be there the next day. Or the next. I start carving his name into my arm. I start taking my blood and feeding it into calligraphy pens. I write poetry, Limericks, random words that say over and over again the feeling of abandonment. I'm alone in a crowded room. It's so sad.

Two months go by before I see him again. I had lost hope a long time ago. I was cutting more often than I did before. It's been getting hard to get back into bed. I've also been having headaches and getting dizzy randomly. I think I'm going to kill myself soon if this doesn't stop. But I can't. I'm so weak that I can't even do anything about this. I want to be able to feel something other than the pain, but I can't.

I had one of my dizzy spells as I walked into class. I always pass it off as my clumsiness but it's getting hard to continually cover it up. I stumble as I sit in my seat. I try to take notes but I'm zoning in and out. What I do catch ends up as nearly illegible as my hands are shaking constantly.

A note slides into the edge of my vision as I stare at the page. In an elegant script, black ink spreads across paper.

_Can I talk to you? Out behind the school there is a small forest. I'd like to meet you there after school._

My heart starts pounding. He wants to talk to me? Does he care? This seems like one of those love notes. I blush at the implications. Combined with the blood loss and the blush taking blood to my face, I pass out.


End file.
